


Midnight Special

by clumsycopy



Category: Midnight Special (2016)
Genre: Come Swallowing, F/M, Femdom, Inappropriate Use of Government Resources, Oral Sex, The NSA Read Your Blog, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25295665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clumsycopy/pseuds/clumsycopy
Summary: Life as a fic writer is not as harmless as it looks like. One night you find yourself in an interogation room, accused of being a threat to national security. Paul Sevier is the communications analyst responsible for your case. That's all you know when the night starts, and much more can happen before it ends...
Relationships: Paul Sevier/Reader, Paul Sevier/You
Kudos: 13





	Midnight Special

An agent taps on the paper with his index finger. “Please sign on the dotted lines to confirm you’re 21 years old or older and that you have read and agreed to the terms and conditions outlined in the document.” 

With your eyebrows drawn together, you look at the paper, then at the pen that sits on the desk near your cuffed hands. “I want a lawyer.”

“You’ll be provided with a state-mandated attorney whenever you speak with our law-enforcement agents. Which is not the case at this moment. We’d like you to meet with one of our NSA analysts to go over the possible transgressions found on your web usage for the past 4 months,” he replies in a flat tone.

“Transgressions? Have I broken the law?” you hang your head, fighting the urge to curse and put yourself in a worse predicament.

“We will determine that after the NSA analysts delivers his report. I’d advise you to proceed now and argue your case to the best of your ability.” 

One glance at him and you’ll know you won’t get any more details other than what he told you already.

You sign the papers dropping the pen back on the table. It slides away, falling off the edge.

The man nods once and leaves.

Even in your half-asleep state, you you try to burn his features to your mind so you can identify him, remember his name when you sue anyone involved in whatever this shitshow is.

Too bad he looks like Generic Blonde Man With a Crewcut #66 and you can’t recall if his name is Brad or Chad or Kyle.

A metallic click rings in the empty room as the door opens once more.

The man who enters leans down slightly as not to hit his head in the doorway. He straightens his posture, rising to his full height once he crosses the threshold into the room. He’s  _ big  _ and rather clumsy; like someone who grew up too fast and still is getting used to their size. A pair of big ears peek out from his dark hair. Thin glasses frame his brown, sharp eyes, supported by a strong and long nose. He offers a small smile and his large, plush, and so,  _ so _ pink lips curve up for a brief moment.

Five minutes ago you could fall asleep at the very spot you sat on; after this guy’s arrival, not anymore.

A large hand grasps the chair across from you, pulling it backwards so he has enough space to sit down and tuck his long legs under the table. He carries a stash of folders and loose sheets of paper tucked under his arm.

“Good evening, ma’am. I’m Paul Sevier, lead communications analyst at the NSA. I’ve been assigned to work on your case and I’m here to present the breaches of national security you’ve  _ allegedly _ been involved in.” He sets all his things in a pile, producing a pen from the pocket of his tweed jacket.

You clasp your hands together, shaking the handcuffs that bind your wrists to the table. “Well, I’d like to know as well. I have no clue of  _ why _ I am here at all.”

“We have found evidence that your web activity is tied to several hacking attempts that our facilities have suffered in the past 4 months.” His voice rings deep yet his tone is light and almost amicable, as if he were content to solve for ‘x’. And the ‘x’ is you. “I’d like to start with your GitHub repository. The comments contain some concerning statements.” 

“This is absurd. You’re trying to claim my experimental GitHub repository is a threat to national security?” You scoff, leaning on the desk so you can glare at the man. “Because of comments in the code? The repo was set to private anyway, so it can’t be taken as something serious, it’s just some dumb program I was working on to help me write?”

He blinks, unmoved by your harsh tone of voice. “Do you confirm the following statement is true: on line 34 of the file  _ ‘thirsty_ai.py’ _ you’ve wrote _ ‘# please NSA, don’t mind me, I’ m horny and too lazy to write, so I’m trying to code an AI that spits out my work for me’ _ .”

“Yes, I wrote that, but I fail to realize how that’s a threat? It’s an throwaway comment in a code I never expected anyone but myself to read,” you reply.  _ At any moment Ashton Kutcher will walk in. Any moment now... _

“Your code is not the only issue. Evidence suggests you’re also a writer. What if I told you that some keywords and the word count contained in your writing includes sensitive government information that, given the dates you posted on, was transmitted by satellite in a secure encrypted format, the decryption and dissemination of which, other than being scientifically impossible, would carry punishments of treason that are so severe the government probably hasn’t invented them yet?” Paul pushes his glasses up with two of his thick fingers.

“That’s impossible.”

“Yet it happened. We were able to match the exact hour of man-in-the-middle attack attempts to the number of words in your stories. On June 30th, you posted a 1052 word text and on that same day there was an attempt to breach our servers at 10:52 PM CST. The numbers show a clear pattern that prompted us to monitor you.” His eyes scan your face, analyzing your reaction.

Disbelief clouds your features as you raise an eyebrow. “Surely of all people you would know that correlation does not imply causation?”

“Our data says otherwise. As a precaution, we’ve frozen and combed through all your email accounts, including your personal, academic, and a third, miscellaneous one. Given that most of the activity related to the attacks came from the third account, I’ve personally checked every document attached to it and I’ve outlined some portions to be discussed here.” He shuffles through his folders, plucking out a stack of papers and splaying them over the desk.

Sevier flips the pages so that they face you. To your horror, you recognize every word.

“Wait.” You tear your gaze away from the writing to look him in the eye. “You’ve read my writing? How the fuck is my fanfiction breaking any laws?”

“Well, depending on which work your writing derives on, you could be breaking several laws, but you should take counsel with a lawyer about  _ that _ . The issue is not with your content itself, but your suspicious web activity that urged us to investigate you.” He smiles, happy to provide you with answers “After monitoring your usage for the past months, I’ve gathered enough data to form a pattern, which I’m going to share with you to confirm the accuracy of my report.”

“Do I have a say in this?”

“We can work together to determine which activities were indeed a breach of national security. You may walk away with a slap on the wrist. The other option would be to pin everything on you, ma’am.” Paul scratches the back of his neck, tilting his head to the side.

A reluctant nod from you is all he needs to continue. He picks up up another piece of paper and starts reading from it. “You have an average of 800 words a day, with a spike of activity during the weekend. Your web traffic is evenly split between Tumblr, Thesaurus.com, GitHub, LeetCode and streaming platforms. You average a 4.5 hours a day on VS Code, with your most used languages being C++, TypeScript and Python. Is that correct? ” 

“Yes, that’s correct,” you announce the words slowly, unsure of what his point is.

He slides the files closer to you, using a large finger to point at a portion of the text. “Please read the outlined sections.”

You hum, running a tongue over your lips before directing your gaze to the page. “Clyde clenched his hand, slidin’ it up and down, pressin’ harder just as his fingers glazed the head of his penis. He closed his eyes for a moment, throwin’ his head back, picturin’ you, moanin’, cryin’ for him, for his cum, wherever he wanted it.” By the end of the paragraph your heart had dropped to your stomach which you reckoned was plopped on the floor. 

“Do you confirm that you’re referring to Clyde Logan, a fictional character from the movie Logan Lucky?” Paul asks without a hint of awkwardness or anything other than curiosity.

“Yes.”

He nods, pleased with your answer. “Please continue, ma’am.”

For a moment you say nothing, because you fear your voice is not working. “Kylo unclips his weapon and for a moment your heart explodes, fearing he’s going to end you once and for all. To your surprise he turns the hilt to the opposite side and the double guards face away from your body. His hand masks the true size of the lightsaber. As it comes closer to you, only then you take a good look at it, at how  _ long _ and ridged and sharp it is, with corners and wires and jagged edges.”

Each new word you read spikes a shiver of shame that rings through your spine. You can’t see it, but the burn stings your cheeks, your ear, your neck; the worst of it is the way your core clenches from the embarrassment of reading your writing to a stranger.

Paul Sevier… what a beautiful man. Even as your eyes focus on the words, you peek at his figure, noticing how his Adam’s apple glides up and down on his neck, how his collar is a little disheveled, layers of clothes no longer crisp and aligned on top of each other. He shuffles on the chair, spreading his thick thighs further, at least that’s what you assumed from the sound of his shoes dragging on the ground. 

You can’t help but breath a sigh of relief when the paragraph ends. Still your eyes are trained on the sheets of paper, hands smoothing the files flat against the table, fidgeting because you don’t know what else to do.

Of all the things you thought would happen in 2020, getting horny when reading your garbage fics to an NSA communications analyst wasn’t one of them.

“The ‘Kylo’ referenced in that portion is the same ‘Kylo’ as in ‘Kylo Ren’ from the Star Wars franchise?” He has a pen in his right hand, jotting out scribbles in a yellow notepad.

“He is. I fail to see how is that relevant at all? Look, I can’t do this.” The chair drags and scratches across the floor as you attempt to move closer.

The harsh ceiling lighting does no favours to anyone’s face, but you still think this Paul Sevier is a gorgeous man. He’s got so many beauty marks littered across his features that also trail down his neck and whatever you can see of his massive, sinewy hands.

“Can’t do what?” He stares up at you, stopping his writing for a moment.

You direct your gaze to his notes instead, but it’s hard to decipher upside down text. “Read my writing in front of you. Look, I know what I wrote, you’ve read it already, so there’s no need to make me repeat myself.” 

“I’m sorry for this dire situation, ma’am. I hope you understand I must do my job and investigate every possible thread that might lead to a concrete answer.” He crosses his arms, shifting in his seat.

The fabric of his coat strains and tightens and wraps around around the bulge of muscle.

He clears his throat and you roll your eyes at yourself for staring and embarrassing yourself even further.

Paul continues: “Would you like to take a small break? This interview might extend for a couple hours at least. Is there anything I can do to make your experience more pleasant?”

If you weren’t cuffed to the table you’d have jumped out of your seat.  _ Is he really doing this?  _ Once again you look at his face, taking not of the small drops of sweat that cover his forehead, temples and neck.

“Will you take off your coat, Mr. Sevier?”

“Yes, ma’am. Please call me Paul.” He leaps to his feet, sliding his grey coat off his broad shoulders and draping it over the chair. Beneath it all he’s wearing a light yellow shirt that brings out the color of his eyes.

When he turns to the side you can’t help but stare at his pants and the volume you see there. It’s on eye level with you, where else were you supposed to look at?

Sevier follows your gaze. His cheeks burn with a blush that travels all the way up to his large ears. He clenches his fists at his sides, and his lip quivers as his mouth opens and closes while he gathers enough courage to ask: “Do you want me to take off my pants, ma’am?”

“Yes,” you reply in a hushed voice, afraid that any loud noise might ruin the moment. “Move your underwear out of the way too.”

Paul stops, breath knocked out of him.

You begin to speak, throwing word after word to backtrack what you had just said; maybe you’ve misread the room. However, your apology is silenced when Sevier moves both hands to his hips.

There’s no sound except for the soft whisper of his leathe r belt shimmying out of the loops in his pants. He wraps the belt around itself and deposits it on the table. Next he unbuttons his trousers, exhaling for one second, eyes finding yours as if to confirm you still want this.

“Go on,” you coo.

He slides both garments--pants and underwear--down his massive thighs, with trembling hands.

His cock is as big as he is, it’s fat, long, marbled with veins, colored a perfect gradient that turns pink on its glistening tip. A patch of fine, black hair frames his crotch and swatches across the apex of his thighs. Paul spreads the droplets of precum with his thumb, wrapping a large hand around the shaft, tugging it a few times to spread the wetness.

For an instant your eyes flash to the cameras and you ask yourself if someone’s watching. That fleeting thought is forgotten as fast as it appeared.  _ Guess that sounds like a ‘his’ problem, not mine. _

“Paul. I want you to move your hand faster,” you tell him. No, you order him and your pulse thrums in your ears as you wait for his obedience.

He shifts his wrist so he can have a better grip. Doing just as you’ve told him, Sevier pumps his hand faster and faster until the room is filled with soft smacking sounds.

“Good boy,” you pant. “Press your cock harder in the upstroke.”

“Like the way you wrote, ma’am?” he asks in a strained voice.

_ Fuck, this is hot.  _ “Yes. Just like the way I wrote.”

It’s agonizing to watch him touch himself for you while you’re dripping wet and can’t do anything because of some stupid handcuffs.  _ We’ll have to see about that _ .

Paul can’t help himself and starts moaning. He tries so, so hard to be quiet, his coworkers are right outside the door and he can’t let them hear him. But stars, he wants to please you so hard he could cry.

“Your moans are so beautiful,  _ agent  _ Sevier, but I’m sure you know we can’t let anyone hear this. Do you want a colleague to walk in on us?  _ Hush _ .” Your pupils are blown out, eyes narrowed in each and every one of his movements. “How many times have you read my stories?”

“Between all of them, 40 to 45 times. Some nights I stay  _ late  _ in the office. Working. Solving problems no one seems to grasp. On those nights when I’m a-alone, I like to read your writing and I imagine myself as the male character.” By now his hips thrust upwards so he can fuck his fist; his glasses are perched upon the middle of his long nose, with a bright glare reflecting on the lenses. 

“Is that so?” Your whole face lights up. “Which character is your favourite?”

“Clyde Logan.”

“That’s interesting. Why?” The table’s edge digs into your stomach as you lean down to be as close as possible to Paul’s quivering form.

His voice is small and hesitant when he replies, “Because Clyde's sweet, caring and attentive and I’d like to be all of those things to- to someone.”

“That’s… wholesome. Aren’t you such a good boy?” you drawl.

He nods, scrunching his eyes shut, mouth shaped in an 'o'.

Despite this being new territory, you realize you’re enjoying the power and control over this man who is supposed to be your interrogator. There’s a rush, a hunger, a trance that urges you to keep going and see how far he will go for you, to test the limits of his adoration.

Paul’s head hangs back and he bites his lip to keep himself from making any louder noises. His moans rumble deep, needy and desperate. The rhythm of his hand becomes erratic and unpredictable; he’s closer than ever, but he knows he needs your permission.

“Can I please cum? In your mouth, ma’am? That is, only if you think I’m worthy of it? I don’t want to make a mess of myself, I still have to finish my shift after I’m done with this interview. May I? Will you let me? I promise I’ll be good for you,” he begs. His eyes have a feral glint to them as he struggles to contain himself.

“Will you be able to keep that promise? I should tell you to cum over your stomach. You’re so desperate for me, aren’t you?” He tries to reply but you interrupt him. “You say you don’t want to make a mess, but I think you’re fucking lying.”

He whimpers, words gurgling in his throat when he feels the rush of blood that throbs in his cock to the point of pain.

“ _ Paul. _ ” You like how his name rolls of your lips. “Your colleagues are out there, working hard on my case… and yet you are here, hardly working. Aren’t you ashamed?”

“I am ashamed, ma’am. You’re absolutely right. I should be doing my job… but I just want to make you feel good.”

“Ashamed? Don’t try to fool me… you want more. That’s ok. I’ll let you have it, if you’re good for me.” After a few seconds you catch the way his cheeks redden more, both from the strain of holding back and from the effect of your words.

“I’ll do everything you say, exactly the way you say it,” he fires back.

“Will you? Come closer. You have a lot to make up for, Mr. Sevier, but I’ll let you cum in my mouth. If you waste any drops, you’ll have to lick them off, no matter where they land.” The sleek, cold, uncomfortable metal chair you sit on grinds and screeches while you sway your hips in an attempt to quench the coil that tightens inside you.

“I’m so close. Please, ma’am, will you let me cum?” he cries out.

“What makes you think you deserve it? I should be home now, fast asleep, but I’m here, and you’re keeping me up.  _ How _ are you going to earn it?” your tone is sharp and clipped.

Paul takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring and mouth quivering while he tries to compose himself enough to think of something, anything else other than his climax. “I’ll make sure it never happens again. No one will go after you, my report will assure that. I promise, please, allow me to cum. I can’t hold it much longer, but I don’t want to displease you. Pleasepleaseplease...”

Your grin is sharp, predatory and maybe a little mocking. “Isn’t it sweet how you want to be good for me?! Is that what you want, be a good boy?”

“For you. I want to be good for you.” His neck is as flushed as his face by now, he’s trying so hard to curb his orgasm for another second.

Metal smashes on metal when you bang your wrists against the table. “What are you waiting for? Cum for me now.”

He dashes to your side in two steps, cradles your chin within his huge palm, tilting your face to the side while he lines up his cock to rest upon your tongue. The other hand holds your head still as he enters your mouth in slow, shallow strokes. The soft pads of his fingers caress your skin, running across your cheek.

You moan at the sight of that tall, well-dressed, government career man coming undone, craning your neck so you can swallow more of him.

That’s the spark and final push he needs to spill himself. His fingers tighten by a fraction, your name falls of his lips in a languid gasp and then his cock twitches, coating your tongue with thick ropes of cum. He moans a string of broken ‘thank you’s’, massaging your scalp with his fingers.

  
The handcuffs shake with metallic clinks as your hands move, testing their bonds, as you clench and unclench your fists, wishing you could grasp onto him.

Paul smooths your hair down before pulling out of you, dragging his cock over your tongue even as it darts out to keep licking at him.

He still made a bit of a mess on your face and you feel the sticky blobs of his cum on the corners of your mouth and chin. His knees drop to the floor, he sits on the balls of his feet, with his face at the perfect height to be on eye-level with you.

“May I kiss you? I just- I want to-”

“It’s fine. You may kiss me, Paul,” you say, gaze never leaving his lips.

Time stops.

He brings both of his hands to the sides of your face; they’re warm and soft and tender, cupping your cheek as if you are the most treasured being in the world. His eyes drift shut, lips part a mere millimeter… and then he leans forward, extinguishing the distance between you. There are infinite real numbers between 0 and 1, Paul would spend the rest of his life counting all of them if it meant he could kiss you like this again.

His nose bumps against yours and he’s quick to mutter an apology. You shush him by deepening the kiss, tongue ready to explore his mouth. He pulls away due to the dire need for breath, scattering small kisses to the corners of your smile, your chin and your cheeks.

"Please let me touch you?” He sits back, keeping his fists balled on top of his thighs. “I want to make it up to you. It's such an inconvenience… being woken up in the middle of the night, summoned by the FBI. Let me show you, prove to you how sorry I am."

“Help me remove my pants.”

Your back arches towards the table when you stand and Paul tugs the chair away. His fingers pat around the waistband of your sweater pants, dipping under your shirt, pads of his fingers gliding over the elastic. He unties the knot at the front of your hips, thumbs hooking under the fabric before slipping it down your ass, past your inner thighs, letting the garment crunch and pool naturally on your knees.

The slight brush of warm lips on the slit of exposed skin of your lower back hurls a shiver all along your spine. In a regular day, you’d welcome it. Not today. Tonight is about power and control; if you’re not careful and let down your guard, who knows what might happen?

“No,” you snarl. “Use your hands. Naughty, desperate men like you don’t get to taste me. Plus, I have other ideas for this gorgeous mouth of yours. Come on, will you make me wait the whole night?”

Even if you can’t see it, you’re sure he’s shaking his head. “No, ma’am.”

“I figured you wouldn’t dare to waste my time even further. Start with your index finger.” To tempt him, you straighten your legs, showing your glistening cunt to him. Your hamstrings ache with the motion, but that was meaningless compared to the helpless, passionate groan you tore out of Paul.

His index finger slides inside; long and thick and perfect. “So, so tight,” Sevier whispers.

Even though it’s just a finger--one finger--you grunt at the intrusion… or at his adoration? “Another.”

The second’s his middle digit. Paul is so good, so careful, he tries to be slow, but you shuffle back, bucking against his hand.

“It slipped in with no effort at all. Is it because of  _ me _ ?”

“Yes, this is your fault… you know what, touch yourself while you fuck me with your fingers.” You can come right then and there when he moans again, eager and desperate. “Don’t cum.” The command is as much as for yourself as it is for him.

After you get used to the strech and the bite of two fingers, you demand another.

“Are- are you sure? It’s just...my fingers are so big and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” What did the world do to deserve him?

“It’s ok, I can handle it. I want a third finger.” Words melt into a languid sob and a few seconds tick by before you’re able to speak again. “You’re doing such a great job, Paul. Look how intelligent you are, figuring out all these patterns, unravelling the numbers, I bet you solved it all by yourself, didn’t you?”

“I did, ma’am.”

“Tell me how you did it. Tell me everything. I want to know the algorithms, the formulas, the heuristics. Spare no detail.” Each of your sentences is breathier than the last.

He tells you everything. Well, not everything, and most of it is meaningless, technical jargon. You know he knows you know that, but it’s the most he’s allowed to say without putting his job and your lives in risk.

“I’m so proud of you. Now, move faster. Keep your left hand wrapped tight around your cock, choke it if you have to. You’re not cumming again.”

He pleas, begs you to reconsider but you shut him up with another order. “Keep going at the same speed… but add another finger.” A strangled hiss bursts out of you when he pushes his pinky finger inside. It’s almost too much, overwhelming in a way that produces white, overexposed spots behind your eyes, that makes your knees quiver and give out. Of course, Paul is right there to hold you with his free arm, snaking it around your thighs and keeping you close.

His abandoned cock bobs against the hem of his shirt, staining the soft fabric, but he pays no mind to it. After all, he has an assignment to complete.

It’s slow, at first.

Sevier pulls out his fingers, mesmerized by how stretched out you are around him. He stops when only the first knuckles remain inside. With gentleness, he tilts his wrist and aligns his fingers flat and on top of each other, with his thumb nested in the area between your cunt and your asshole. Once he’s satisfied with the new position, he plunges in, splitting you in a whole different way.

“Oh, fuck, you’re doing so well for me. I love how large, broad and long your fingers are. Good boy, keep going.” You let your head hang, relaxed, enjoying the upside down view of Paul’s legs kneeling on the floor.

The sounds he coaxes out of you are wet, indulgent and obscene. You whimper when he propels his hand to the limit, when he curls his fingers, when he presses his thumb down on your delicate flesh and you start dripping all over his wrist. He plucks his hand out. Inch by inch. You feel every crevice, every intrusion and extrusion of his fingers, feel the length, the padded and the bony parts.

Paul moans in tandem with you, fueled by your own arousal. He plants delicate kisses the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and your ass, dragging his stubble over each spot he kissed. A wet, slick, sloppy sound echoes in the room from the pumping motions of his wrist.

"I'm almost there. Are you sure you'll be able to make me cum?" you taunt.

"I can! I swear, I'll make you feel good, I won't disappoint you-"

"Shh… shh… it's alright. I'm going to- to cum now. I'll let you lick me since you've behaved so well tonight. Once. Just one time, you're to pull away immediately, understand?"

"Thank you...thankyouthankyou," he whispers, ever so grateful.

For a split second nothing happens, but you hear him take a slow, deep breath. With the urgency of a starving man he nuzzles his nose into your folds, dragging it all the way up before darting out his large, warm tongue. He flattens it over your clit and starts tilting his head up but making sure he leaves no surface untouched. Paul’s a perfectionist, proud and attentive man who pours his brain power and attention to detail in everything he does-you included.

When he drags his tongue in a final motion, right over the area where his fingers are buried into you, your orgasm hits you like a hammer. 

True to his word, Paul pulls his head away, but keeps his fingers there, moving to the same constant rhythm that draws out more and more and more from you. All your muscles from waist down seize before turning into water, strength slipping away as your orgasm washes over you in a gush so powerful that you feel something spurt out of your quivering cunt.

For all the mockery you threw on Paul for moaning you made a good deal of noise yourself; at any moment you expected someone to walk in and catch you in such a compromising position. You’re coming down from your high, catching your breath, waiting for your mind to disembark from the stratosphere. 

In a flash he’s kneeling near your face, eyes looking all over, scanning you in search of any signs of uneasiness. His smile is mesmerizing, you can’t resist the innocent tone of his voice when he asks to kiss you again. He’s so tender, so gentle, so eager to please.

“Paul… your glasses,” you breathe.

The lenses are coated with glinting drops that distort image behind them. Paul’s cheeks are damp as well, with small streaks of your wetness running down his face. He pats down with the back of his sleeve, making the mustard fabric turn darker as it wipes out the liquid.

Ever the gentleman, he helps you re-dress, pulling your sweater pants up your thighs and tying the straps in a neat bow. Next he pushes the chairs back to their previous position, supporting you in your descend to sit down.

Once you’re settled he walks around the table, fixing himself up as best as he can. An attentive eye could notice the stains on his shirt, damp patches of hair and this glow, newfound flush that seems to permeate him. He redresses, sits down on the table, gather his files, folders and notes, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Today is just another Wednesday, you know.

“Well, I think my work is done here. I have all the required information to proceed with your case. Ma’am, you’re free to enjoy the rest of your night, soon an agent will transport you out.”

“Tonight wasn’t 100% fair because I couldn’t get my hands on you. There’s so much I could have done… if you want to come back for more, I think you’ll know where to find me, Mr. Sevier.”

“It was my pleasure to serve you, ma’am. I hope I did not tarnish your opinion of the NSA and that I provided you with a satisfiable experience.. Thank you for your time and patience,” he says with sincerity.

As if on cue the same agent that brought you here returns, and frees your wrists from the table. He ushers you to the hallway so you can sit down in one of the chairs and wait for your fate. 

Paul’s gaze persists for a moment more; unspoken words exchanged on an instant that only you and him were a part of.

Again, the man joins Sevier in the interrogation room. Whispers and unintelligible echoes of conversation make their way up to you, but there’s no word you can untangle from the jumbled sounds.

The door opens, both men walking out with quiet steps. Paul avoids your gaze, fiddling with his glasses instead. The other man approaches you and gestures for you to stand up.

“Ma’am, thank you for your time and assistance in this preliminary interview. According to our analyst’s report, we will require no further information to complete our assessment, so you should expect another appointment to clear up your records in the next 2 business days. Please allow me to walk you out to the departure area where a vehicle will drive you back to your home.”

You smile when the agent--Brad, you finally remember his name is Brad--escorts you out of the facility. What started as a fucking ridiculous night ended in the best possible way. With one last look over your shoulder you catch Paul’s gaze while he walks back to his working area.

His cheeks flush and he nods once. All clear.

Joy sweeps through your heart. You knew taking that Cybersecurity 102 class would pay off some day. Your first scuffle with the law had you crossing paths with the NSA. What would happen in the second one?   
  
The CIA?   
  


It’s a ephemeral, dangerous, irresistible thought, but you try imagine what would happen if you hack their [REDACTED] with [REDACTED]. If you’re feeling daring enough, you can also wait for the [REDACTED] holiday and [REDACTED]. 

_ What kind of report they’d write about that? _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
